A Family Fright Night

Is facing death up to interpretation? Hear me out. Let’s say I owned a convenience store and was robbed at gunpoint. I think we can agree that If that were to happen and I was not killed, that I would have survived a life threatening experience. And if, for example, I were so petrified at the sight of a gun held up to my face that I soiled my pants or vomited across the counter, no one could blame me. Because after all, my life was on the line!

But what if it later was discovered that the gun was fake? Is my story no longer harrowing? Have I no longer stood face to face with the grim reaper? I would have still experienced all of the emotions involved with a near death experience: the begging, the pleading, the vomiting, the soiled undergarments. Doesn’t that count for something?!

This isn’t a story about a convenience store stick-up or shit stained underwear by the way, I’m just trying to make a point here. 

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The year was 1998 and I was 5 years old. At the time, my mom, brother, and I were living with my grandparents. Looking back, their home was somehow both oddly comforting and horrifying. On one hand, I can remember things like hand-sewn afghans along a large L-shaped couch and toy chests filled with race cars and Mega-Blocks. But I also tend to remember things like the 6-foot tall china cabinet filled with eerily detailed porcelain hobos or the vacuum cover that looked like a giant rabbit wearing colonial garb propped in the corner of the dining room. If you’re feeling brave, consider googling the phrase “colonial rabbit vacuum cover” and try sleeping tonight. Good luck. 

But regardless of how I felt about the polarizing décor, this was home. And with this home, came a weekly tradition. Each Friday without fail, my mom would stop by the local video rental store and pick up some VHS tapes for my brother and I to watch before bed. The movies were almost always a surprise but given that he was 6-years-old and I was 5, it was a safe bet that the movies most likely featured characters like talking lobsters or singing household appliances. 

I remember one Friday in particular when my grandma told me tonight’s movie night would be special. She explained to me that my mom was going to pick up some movies and that my two uncles and aunt would be coming over too. At the time, I was incredibly excited and had hoped they would bring my cousins along with them so that we could play and have a sleepover. 

As the evening wound down, my mom finally arrived with the VHS tapes and various snacks from the local convenience store down the street. As per usual, my brother and I swarmed her, looking to get a peak at the label from the VHS tape.  My mother was quick to pull the bag back, saying that it was a surprise. Given that our spindly arms could only reach so high, we conceded. Instead, we asked what the movies were about. All she would reveal was that the movie we were watching tonight was about a doll. 

As we waited for my family to arrive, my brother and I donned our nightly attire, which most likely consisted of Barney pajamas, and found our place on the couch. Finally, around 8 0’clock, my uncles and aunt showed up and soon after we gathered around the television. As the lights flicked off, my brother and I ravenously devoured our snacks in eager anticipation as the tape slipped into the VHS player. When the film began, we both wondered how the film may have opened. Maybe it would be something like a regal castle overlooking a magical kingdom. Or perhaps we’d see a talking animal breaking the fourth wall to key us in on the story. However, what actually appeared on screen was quite different.

The film began with a black screen and the sounds of someone breathing heavily. They were running. As it faded in, we saw two figures barreling through a gritty alley with pistols drawn. Suddenly, police sirens rang through the air and a tense pursuit began. As the police and criminals exchanged shots, I remember looking over to my brother, his mouth agape, the corpse of a headless Swedish fish dangling from his lips. He didn’t speak, but his expression said it all. Where were the castles? Where was the magic? Where were the damn talking animals!? Instead, I was watching a now wounded criminal dive into a store, ducking between the aisles to evade capture. 

There must've been a mix up at the video store. This was all just a misunderstanding. I turned to my left, toward my grandmother. My confused gaze was met with a twisted expression of suppressed laughter to a punchline I was obviously not equipped to comprehend. As I forced my eyes back to the screen, I caught a glimpse of the now dying criminal stumbling over various boxes in the store. Finally succumbing to his wounds, he landed firmly on the ground and inadvertently opened one of the toys on the shelves. Spilling out of the box was this small, red headed doll in overalls. I imagine I must have been relieved at the time, naively thinking this was the introduction of our story's protagonist. Oh, how wrong I was.

In case you haven’t picked up on it yet, my mother and grandmother had the brilliant idea of renting Child’s Play starring Chucky the killer doll. And for the next 90 minutes, I was subjected to the terror of watching a possessed toy murder countless people while a small child, barely older than myself, had to fight to survive. 

By the end of the movie, I was petrified to say the least. The credits hadn’t even finished and I was already imagining Chucky hiding in my toy chest or whispering my name and guiding me toward the basement. “Hi, I’m Chucky. Wanna play?” I could hear the phrase in my mind repeating over and over, beckoning me down the dark and narrow stairs, never to be seen again. As I slumped into the couch, eyes glazed over with a thousand-yard stare, my concentration was finally broken by my mom’s voice. “Alright ya turkeys,” she said, “It’s time to get ready for bed.” 

“Bedtime, at a time like this?!” I thought to myself. There was no way they could possibly expect me to sleep off the terror I was just subjected to. Had they no sympathy? No sense of commiseration? And what about the second movie? But everyone just stood up and began straightening up like nothing had happened. Had we watched the same film? When the lights turned on, it finally dawned on me. They weren’t kidding. I was being forced to go to bed. I had been betrayed by my own flesh and blood. 

My brother and I slithered off the couch, thoroughly defeated. We stepped toward the stairs with weighted feet, like cinder blocks were preventing us from climbing. “Get up there and brush your teeth,” my mother shouted at us from the kitchen, “We’ll be up in a minute.” 

My brother and I summited the stairs and walked toward the bathroom ahead. Fortunately for us, the light switch was outside of the bathroom, which meant we weren’t forced to turn on each other to see who would have to step into the dark room first. As the lights flickered on, our eyes darted madly in search of any out of the ordinary movements. Even at that age, we knew it wouldn’t be beneficial to give into our fears and so outwardly, we acted as though everything was normal. In actuality, each of us was scanning the room through our peripheral vision, eyes dilated and necks craned like owls. Neither of us dared to peer behind the shower curtain or check the cabinet under the sink for fear that Chucky would emerge and slap us around. We must’ve brushed our teeth for a combined total of 30 seconds before barreling out of the room. So much for acting tough. 

As we stepped through the threshold of our shared bedroom, my brother and I were shocked to see that we weren’t alone. In fact, my entire family was there. My mom, my grandparents, my uncles, and my aunt were all waiting for us to arrive. We were confused to say the least. “Why are you all here,” my brother asked. “To say goodnight to you guys,” my mom replied, with a delivery so unconvincing that even my 5 year old brain was firing on all cylinders and screaming “It’s a trap!”  

“Hop into bed,” my grandmother added, with an eerie grin that would put Conrad Veidt to shame. My brother and I shared a bed at the time and we both gave each other the same expression that said “you first.” Neither of us moved. “Hurry up,” my mom said, “Uncle Ricks gotta get going.” My brother and I continued our staring match for another few seconds before he broke eye contact and began to move.

Being the older sibling seemed to strike him like civic duty and I felt a sense of relief wash over me as he began to move toward the bed. However, I was also hit with a healthy dose of guilt. Out of camaraderie, I decided to move with him. As we climbed onto the bed, we both knew we had to get under the blankets as soon as possible. Everyone and their mother knows that the only way to escape monsters of any kind is to throw your entire body beneath the blankets. If even a toe is sticking out, there’s no guarantee that you’re safe.

But as we went to lift the blankets off from the bed, something was amiss. Beneath the blanket, buried below our fortress of solitude, was a lump.  “What is that?” I said aloud. “Is that a pillow?” my brother added. In hindsight, I should have known it was something dangerous. All the signs of danger were there. But curiosity had gotten the better of us. We both took hold of a corner of the blanket and in one wave, whipped them toward the bottom of the bed. Despite our high level of alertness and paranoia, neither of us were truly prepared for what laid dormant atop our sheets. 

Staring directly at my brother and I from the very bed we slept in, was a Chucky doll. The blanket had not even landed before my brother let out a visceral screech that could shatter glasses. It was loud enough that my first instinct was to cover my ears rather than defend myself from the knife wielding doll. Whatever alliance my brother and I had that night died the moment we saw that doll. My first instinct was to dive off the bed and hope Chucky would go for him. Brotherhood be damned, this was about survival. 

I plummeted toward the floor and began a military crawl toward the doorway. The plan was simple. Once Chucky finished with my brother, he would have my whole family to carve through which would give me just enough time to get outside and flag down a car and escape. But as I began to wriggle across the carpet, gathering countless rug burns and scrapes, I felt something plop on my back. I screamed as loud as I could as I looked over my shoulder. Chucky had somersaulted off of bed and was now climbing up my back to finish the job. My plan to escape was foiled and I knew that at that moment, it was either me or him. 

With all the strength I could muster, I got to my feet and scooped Chucky from off my back. I charged through the doorway and out to the hall overlooking the stairs. I grabbed the doll by the throat and slammed him as hard as I could against the banister railing before casting over the side. As he plummeted down the stairs, rattling against each wooden step, I stood frozen in place. Finally, after tumbling down roughly 16 steps, his body finally ceased to move. I had killed him. Or so I thought at the time. 

As I sobbed and fought to catch my breath, the adrenaline dying down, I began to hear uproarious laughter from behind me. As I turned away from the stairs, I could see my entire family doubled over, sprawled across the room, all laughing like hyenas. Even my brother had found amusement in me being assaulted by a doll mere moments after thinking he himself was going to be killed. My mom ran over and scooped me up. I went limp as the adrenaline finally wore off. 

I didn’t understand it at first, but eventually I was able to comprehend what had happened. My grandmother and mother had been out shopping and came across a replica Chucky Doll. And like most adults would do, their next thought was to rent a VHS tape and make children watch it solely for the purpose of scaring the shit out of them.

I wish I could say this was a one time deal. They saw the error of their ways and never attempted to scare us like that again. But that’s simply not the case. There was the night Ghostface was hiding behind the couch. And the time Freddy Krueger was scraping his fingers along the outside of my bedroom window. I can’t forget to mention that time I got locked out of the house when Jason Vorhees was on the loose. 

At the end of the day, all of these scenarios were cruelly orchestrated by my sick relatives. Even today, my grandmother can’t tell this story without almost bursting a blood vessel from laughter. Was my life ever truly on the line? No. But god damn did it feel like it was at the time. So interpret the term life threatening however you’d like. Either way, in my eyes, I had overcome death about a half dozen times by the time I was ten.